


fade in, fade out

by ictus



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Identity Porn, M/M, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Eames has a way about him, a way of effortlessly commanding the attention of an entire room, and a way of fading into a crowd when he no longer wants to be seen. It’s part of what makes him such a good forger. In that same way, he fades in and out of Arthur’s life in a manner that’s almost dreamlike; an apparition that manifests when Arthur least expects it, only to vanish again just as suddenly.Three drinks in three cities with one man Arthur's never able to figure out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> It's been nine years since this film came out, which means I've spent nine years looking for an explanation for this exchange:
>
>> COBB: Arthur keeps telling me it can't be done.
>> 
>> EAMES: Hmm, Arthur. You're still working with that stick in the mud.
>> 
>> COBB: He is good at what he does, right?
>> 
>> EAMES: Oh he's the best, but he has no imagination.   
> 
> 
>   
> This is (one version of) that story. Huge thanks to jaegermighty for the invaluable beta! 

**i.** Gunpowder

 

Arthur runs his finger around the outside of his glass, gathering the condensation. The hotel bar is awash with the dim chatter of a hundred anonymous people, but none of them are the one he’s waiting for. He suppresses the urge to check his watch for what must be the hundredth time, and instead takes another sip of his drink. It’s fragrant. The familiar taste of juniper coupled with a citrus that bursts bright on his tongue. Both notes are undercut by something sharp and spicy, like aniseed. He can’t seem to place it, although he’s certain he’s had it before.

“You must be Arthur.”

Arthur starts, jerked from his reverie. There’s a man in front of him: tall and dark and every bit Arthur’s type, his impeccably-tailored suit showing off the long lines of his body. Arthur rises smoothly to shake his hand, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his face.

“Yes I am, and you are—”

“Peter.” Arthur’s grip falters. Peter’s lip curls, a knowing smile. But it means nothing: Peter’s a common name, and sometimes a coincidence is just that. Arthur forces his own features into a polite smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says as they both take their seats.

Peter flags the attention of a passing waiter and orders something Arthur’s not familiar with, a name forgotten as soon as it’s uttered. Then he turns back to Arthur and says with far too much confidence and not a single ounce of shame—

“So, do you come here often?”

Arthur takes a sip of his drink, stalling, trying to figure out how he wants to play this. He decides the only appropriate response to such a half-assed come-on is to answer earnestly. “What, here?” He makes a show of looking around the unfamiliar bar, taking in its sleek, minimalist architecture and the soft lighting glancing off the chrome finishes. Finally he says, “I feel as though I spend half my life in hotel bars just like this one.”

“Is that so?” Peter’s leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed, assessing. Peter is somehow bigger than his body, his presence taking up more space than what his narrow shoulders and slim hips should permit, effortlessly commanding Arthur’s attention. “What line of work are you in, to end up in places like this all the time?”

“I’m an architect,” he says. It’s only half a lie, and a lie by omission at that. “And yourself?”

“I work in accounting.”

Arthur’s stomach flips. He keeps his voice carefully casual. “How’s that?”

“Boring as sin,” he says with a laugh, his smile bright and gorgeous and enough to quell that niggling feeling of unease tugging at the back of Arthur’s mind.

Peter’s drink arrives, something amber on ice that Arthur doesn’t recognise. Peter swallows in one smooth glide, and Arthur’s transfixed by the line of his throat, by the bob of his Adam’s apple. Arthur reaches for his own drink and is surprised to find it empty. How long have they been sitting here, anyway?

“Now Arthur,” he says leaning in close, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I could buy you another drink and we can sit and chat some more. Or,” he says, running his hand up the inside of Arthur’s thigh underneath the table, “we could skip the song and dance, go up to your room, and you can fuck my brains out.”

Arthur keeps his expression neutral. He can appreciate a direct approach, and there’s no doubt that Peter is exactly his type. But nothing good ever comes easy—Arthur included.

“That’s very forward of you.”

“I don’t see the point in denying ourselves something we both obviously want.”

Arthur’s hand twitches where it rests on the table, itching to reach for his die. A nervous tic he never managed to get a handle on, and an obvious tell to anyone who knows him. Peter picks up on the movement and smiles knowingly.

“C’mon,” he says dragging his hand higher, toying with the inseam of Arthur’s slacks. Arthur’s resolve crumbles in discrete increments.

“Okay,” he breathes out on a sigh.

“Okay. What’s your room number?”

A sudden hush falls over the room. Everywhere, people are turning to look at them.

Arthur hesitates. “I don’t remember.”

“Check your pocket.”

Arthur reaches for the keycard in his pocket. He can feel the eyes of countless strangers burning into the back of his head. “Uh, fourteenth floor, room 27.”

Peter’s smile sharpens. “Shall we, then?” He rises to his feet and rebuttons his jacket, his deft, elegant fingers gliding over the expensive fabric.

“Sure.” Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to regain some of his composure. As he does, the entire room seems to relax with him, the quiet murmur of the other patrons filling the air once again, chatter accented by the clink of glassware and the scuff of chairs.

Arthur follows Peter into the lobby, his hand clenched tightly around his die where it’s hidden in his pocket. Peter shoots him a crooked grin over his shoulder, the expression looking out of place on his handsome face. Arthur falters. A nearby family stop to stare at them.

“C’mon,” he says, guiding Arthur with a gentle touch to his waist. “Just wait here a second.”

Peter makes for concierge desk, leaving Arthur alone with a rising sense of unease. Arthur can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s something off, something that doesn’t quite add up. It’s a feeling that only intensifies when Peter passes the concierge desk to approach a man. The stranger is hidden behind a pillar but Arthur can see the way Peter’s leaning in, whispering very closely.

Arthur strays from his spot, trying to catch a glimpse of who Peter’s talking to. The conversation is brief, lasting mere seconds, and when the man turns to leave, Arthur can’t help but feel that there’s something familiar about his posture, his gait. He’s just about to pursue him when he feels a hand on his upper arm.

“Are you ready?”

Peter has appeared by his side, his voice low and honeyed in Arthur’s ear.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Peter doesn’t reply. People everywhere are stopping to stare at them, setting Arthur’s teeth on edge. As Peter guides him back to the elevators, more than a few of them bump into him, too aggressive to be accidental.

“C’mon,” he says, dragging Arthur into a newly-vacated elevator. Peter presses the button for the fourteenth floor then closes the doors abruptly.

“Do you want to try explaining to me what exactly—”

Peter pushes him against the elevator wall, forcing the air right out of his lungs. He steals what’s left of his breath when he presses his mouth to Arthur’s, the kiss frantic and desperate. Arthur bites at his lips, all his frustration coming to the surface, but that only seems to spur Peter on. He grinds his hips against Arthur’s and rips his shirt out of his belt, the feeling of Peter’s hands on his bare skin setting his nerves alight.

The seconds drag, stretch. The elevator goes up and up and never seems to reach the fourteenth floor. Arthur has a million questions and accusations on the tip of his tongue, but Peter’s hands are all over him, skimming his sides, raking his nails down his back, and Arthur is completely lost to the sensation. Time is elastic, nothing to distinguish one moment from the next except for the fervent roaming of Peter’s hands, the eager press of his mouth. Until—

“Do you hear that?” Arthur is gasping, breathless.

“Hear what?” Peter asks, biting at his jaw.

“Music.” The more he thinks of it, the louder it becomes, like an image coming into focus. Finally, something clicks into place.

Arthur reaches for his die but Peter’s too quick for him, grabbing his wrist and pinning it to the wall above his head. Arthur struggles in his grasp but Peter carries the strength of someone much bigger than himself, his body a solid and immovable wall against Arthur’s. Peter leans in close to murmur in his ear, his voice deep and rough and not his own.

“So sorry about this, Arthur,” he says, and as Arthur’s world fades away into darkness, the last thought that crosses his mind is that Peter’s accent is not American, but thoroughly and undeniably English.

 

 

Arthur wakes, dazed and disoriented. A nondescript hotel room blinks into view, floor-length windows revealing a dreary view of the River Liffey. Dublin. The Walsh job. The details come back to Arthur in a slow trickle. Dom is already across the room, frantically sorting through a deck of playing cards. A man in a paisley shirt sits opposite Arthur, carefully removing the IV line from his wrist and not quite meeting his eyes.

Eames.

The new forger.

Fury rises like bile in Arthur’s throat. He rips his own IV from his wrist and stalks over to the window, presses his forehead to the cool glass and uses every trick he knows to keep his anger in check.

“Is this it? Was this your card?”

Dom is holding the three of diamonds between two fingers. Arthur spares a glance at Eames, then returns his gaze to Dom. He nods mutely.

Dom lets out a laugh and collapses onto a chair. Arthur knows that feeling all too well—the exhilaration that comes from a successful extraction. Usually he’s the one recovering secrets from the subject’s mind. It’s only recently that he’s had to come to terms with how it would feel to be the mark.

“That,” Dom says, “was incredible. How did you get the code for the safe?”

Eames’s smile quirks and Arthur has to turn away, can’t bear to see that self-satisfied smirk. “It was his room number. Fourteenth floor—”

“Room 27,” Dom finishes. “014027. You created a scenario in which he would need to give you a set of numbers, and you had his subconscious fill in the blanks for you. That’s genius.”

Arthur’s palms sting where his nails are digging in to his skin. This is the fourth forger they’ve tested, always the same trial: Arthur picks a card from a deck at random, keeping it secret from the other two. Then the three of them go under, and the forger is tasked with distracting Arthur while Dom extracts the information. All of them had managed to forge with varying degrees of proficiency, but only Eames had been skilled enough to devise such a creative strategy, to turn the system on its head and completely bypass Arthur’s conscious desires to tap straight into his subconscious.

Something about that gets under Arthur’s skin.

“Where was the safe?” he asks finally, still not turning away from the window.

“In the basement,” Dom says. “Not very original.”

“I didn’t bury it deep. You were supposed to find it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. All I had to do is wait until you two disappeared into the elevator before I got the next one going down. How did you manage to lure him in there?”

Arthur turns and shoots a warning look at Eames. Eames meets his eyes for the briefest of seconds before saying with what passes as regret, “Trade secret, I’m afraid. Can’t show my hand all at once now, can I?”

Dom seems satisfied, but Arthur can’t shake the feeling that something doesn’t quite add up.

“Why didn’t I realise I was dreaming?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The signs were all there: altered perception of time, not being able to remember how I arrived. My projections were turning hostile. I do this often enough, I can usually tell.”

Eames’s expression is far from contrite. “The Somnacin I use has a slightly different chemical composition to what you’re used to. It’s a more powerful sedative.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Cheating?” That crooked smile is back, the same one that came through in the dream. Arthur wants to punch it right off his smug fucking face. “Arthur, this isn’t a _game_.”  

“You certainly seemed to think so.”

Eames’s smile twists in a way that makes Arthur’s stomach lurch. “Is that what this is about? Arthur, I’m a forger: it’s my job to deceive people. I thought you knew what you were signing up for.”

“You know that’s not what I mean—”

“Gentlemen, please,” Dom says. “Eames, you gave an impressive performance and we think you’d be a good fit for the job—”

“We?” Arthur interjects.

“— _I_ think you would be a good fit for the job. But I still have to discuss it with my partner here,” he says, shooting Arthur a pointed look.

“Of course, no I understand completely,” he says genteel as you please, and his amicable tone only riles Arthur further. He rises to shake Dom’s hand then turns to Arthur, still loitering by the window. He extends a hand. The petty part of Arthur wants to refuse the handshake, but the pettier part of him doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Finally, he relents. Eames’s hand is warm and broad and so unlike the hands that drove him to ruin in his dream. Arthur hates himself for the thought the instant it occurs to him.

“Arthur,” he says, a sly smile on his face.

“Mr Eames.”

“Hope to hear from you soon,” he says with a wink, and Arthur cannot think of a single thing he wants less.

 

: : :

 

Arthur doesn’t linger long after that. He packs up with his usual efficiency, wordlessly collecting the IV leads and closing the PASIV with a decisive _click_. He’s on the point of leaving with Dom stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Whatever’s going on between you two—you can’t let it get in the way of the job.”

Arthur resolutely does not flinch out of his grasp. “When have you ever known me to do that?”

Dom holds his gaze, considering how far to push this. Finally, he says, “We’ll discuss this later.”

“Can’t wait.” Arthur tosses his jacket over his shoulder and leaves the room without a backwards glance. His own room is across the hall but he finds himself hesitating before it. He wants nothing more than to forget about what happened in the dream, and what he _really_ needs is a drink, something to blur the image of Eames’s projection—that charming smile, those elegant hands. Arthur bites the inside of his lip. Finally, he shrugs on his jacket, and heads down to the lobby.

The hotel bar is almost identical to the one from his dream, hitting Arthur with a feeling of déjà vu that has him itching for his die. Marble floor, floor-length windows, chrome finishes—the sleek and modern design is something Arthur would create in his own dreams. Typically it’s only architects who possess the skill to effortlessly create dreamscapes, and it’s not uncommon for extractors or forgers to base dreamscapes on real life locations. And yet, in all of his time working in the field, Arthur has never seen such a blatant rip-off. He allows himself a small smile as he approaches the bar. For all of Eames’s creativity, this is one area in which Arthur has him outmatched.

Maybe it’s because Eames is on his mind, or the fact that this bar is so reminiscent of the one in his dream, but Arthur is somehow unsurprised to make out a familiar voice through the crowd; the timbre rough and gravelly, the accent undeniably English.

“Two gin and tonics—Gunpowder Gin. Thank you.”

Eames is sitting at the other end of the bar, legs crossed at the knee and looking completely at ease, idly rolling a poker chip across his knuckles.

It’s too much to hope that this is a coincidence.

“Arthur!” Eames says as he approaches, his air of surprise almost insultingly insincere. “So good to see you again.”

“Did you follow me here?”

“’Course not,” he says as the bartender places two drinks on the bar.

“Then whose drink is that?” 

“Yours now,” he says, sliding it towards him. Eames takes a sip of his own drink and regards him keenly, but Arthur’s not willing to let this go so easily.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

Eames sets down his drink and says in a passable imitation of Arthur’s voice, “I feel as though I spend half my life in hotel bars exactly like this one.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “I didn’t intend for that comment to be so literal. Tell me Eames, did you create anything new in that dreamscape? The layout was different, so you get points for that. But the light fixtures, the pattern and texture of the fabric of the seats—all of it was identical.” He raises his glass to his lips and is met with a familiar blend of citrus and spice: grapefruit, cardamom and—star anise, he realises. That was the missing detail from the dream. “Even the drinks are the same. Same blend of gin, same glass, same garnish, even.”

Eames looks unruffled. “Some things were different.”

“You’re right. You missed the architraves over the entryway. The marble is different too: in your dream it was just white and grey but here it has blue running through it, Italian marble. In the dream it was late afternoon and the sun was streaming in, but in reality the windows face east.” He takes another sip and doesn’t miss the way Eames’s eyes fall to his lips. He feels a thrill of gratification. “The differences weren’t intentional so much as a lack of attention to detail.”

“My, you certainly have a lot of thoughts on architraves don’t you? Unfortunately we can’t all be as talented as you, Arthur.”

“If you’re going to replicate something in a dream you should do it exactly or else the subject will notice the difference immediately.”

“It was passable.”

“It was sloppy.”

“Did you come here just to lecture me?”

“Did you not come here to be lectured?” It comes out harsher than he’d intended. Rather than being perturbed Eames only smiles, pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. It’s a trend that’s becoming disturbingly familiar. Arthur turns back to his drink, stares into its depths. Finally, he says, “Why did you do it?”

A beat. “Do what? Forget the architraves?”

“You know what I mean,” he says, turning back to Eames. “Peter: ‘the accountant’.”

A small shrug. “Peter’s a common name. Lots of people are accountants.”

“Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you. You can’t tell me that was a coincidence.”

Eames runs his tongue over his teeth. “Research is half the job. You of all people should know that. I thought you’d like to see that I’d done my homework.”

“So you impersonated one of my exes?”

“I did no such thing. A true forgery requires time, preparation. Ideally I would have days or even weeks to study the subject and master their mannerisms, idiosyncrasies and so forth. You said it yourself: if you’re going to replicate something in a dream, you should do it exactly.”

“But you looked just like him.”

“Did I?”

Arthur thinks back to the dream. He didn’t—not exactly. Same build, same colouring, but that was the extent of their similarities. The more Arthur thought of it, the more he realised that it was only the name that had established the connection in Arthur’s mind.

Eames’s eyes narrow. “You see, most people are—consistent. Predictable. Most people have a type.” His eyes rake Arthur’s body, a small smile curling on the corner of his mouth. Arthur holds his gaze unflinchingly.

“The similarities made me suspicious. You compromised the job.”

“Not suspicious enough to question my motives.”

“You were showing off. That sort of cockiness will get you caught in any situation where the information we’re extracting is more complex than a playing card.”

“I still got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

Arthur’s breath hitches. The question is loaded, weighted. “The code for the safe,” he says carefully. It’s not a question.

Eames’s grin is nothing short of salacious. “Yes Arthur, the code.”

Arthur returns to drink, a stalling tactic that probably isn’t lost on Eames. “Do you always seduce your marks?”

“I’m—versatile,” he says, shameless enough that Arthur knows his double entendre is completely intentional. Arthur licks the taste of juniper off his lips, only realising his error once Eames’s smile widens. Finally, he says, “You want to know what I think, Arthur?”

“I’m honestly not sure that I do.”

“I think you’re the type of person who hates to lose. And you can’t stand that you lost to me in particular.”

“I thought this wasn’t a game.”

“Oh of course not. Never a game. All work, no play.” He’s rolling his poker chip over his knuckles again. Arthur is struck by the urge to snatch it out of his grasp. Instead, he drains the rest of his drink and sets it down with a definite _clink_. Arthur’s composure is slipping, and he refuses to let Eames see how much he’s getting to him. Time to leave.

“Let me get this for you,” Eames says as Arthur reaches for his wallet.  

“I can get my own drink, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I suppose you’ll be needing this, then?” He reaches into his own jacket pocket and pulls out Arthur’s wallet. Arthur snatches it from his grasp. This is what he gets for hiring a thief.

“Don’t get cocky, Mr Eames,” he says, rifling through his wallet and leaving a bill on the bar. As he rises to leave he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Oh and I don’t have one, actually.”

“Don’t have a what?”

“A type,” he says, letting his eyes fall to Eames’s mouth. Eames catches his gaze and flashes him a long, slow smile. “You can expect a call from us soon,” he says, cool and professional.

“I look forward to it,” he says leisurely, poker chip dancing along his knuckles.

 

: : :

 

When Arthur gets back to his room, the first thing he does is roll his die. He does it three, four, five times, and when it comes up the same number every time, he sighs and slumps down onto the bed, exhausted. His encounter with Eames has left him slightly off-kilter, like the rug has been pulled out from underneath him. There’s something grating about it, about the way Eames can rile him up so effortlessly. _I think you’re the type of person who hates to lose. And you can’t stand that you lost to me in particular._

He runs a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind. Finally he reaches for his jacket and fishes out his phone.

The text he sends to Dom is short, curt, just two simple words. _Hire him_ , he taps out, then presses send before he changes his mind. As he watches the message go through, he’s left with an unsettling feeling, like a man who’s just dug his own grave.

 

: : :

 

The Walsh job goes as smoothly as can be expected. Eames proves he’s as adept at forgery as Dom and Arthur could have hoped, effortlessly impersonating Walsh’s wife from the singsong lilt of her voice to her delicate features, right down to the last freckle. More than that, he’s flexible, adaptable. When Walsh doesn’t give up the intel to his wife, Eames suggests they go a level deeper and try a new angle. Forging Walsh’s business partner was never a part of the plan, but Eames does it so convincingly it takes them only minutes to extract the necessary information.

It seems Arthur is not the only one who plans for contingencies.

“I have to say, I’m impressed.”

They’re back on the first level now, having left Walsh on the second with a face-full of lead. Dom is interrogating some of Walsh’s projections to see if there’s anything else they might be able to work with, and Eames—

Eames has taken the form Walsh’s wife once again, standing so close that Arthur can smell her perfume.  

“I told you I was versatile.”

The accent, the voice, they’re all pitch-perfect, but the intonation is all Eames. He leans in closer, his mouth just inches from Arthur’s. Arthur blinks and when he opens his eyes, he’s faced with Walsh’s business partner, suddenly so much taller and using every inch of his height to his advantage. He crowds into Arthur’s personal space, pinning him with dark eyes so unlike Eames’s own.

“Or perhaps this is more your type?”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t have a type—”

“History says otherwise.”

“—and if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your business,” he continues as if Eames hadn’t spoken. Arthur knows he shouldn’t say what’s on his mind but, Eames has been pushing and pushing and now he can’t help but push _back_. “Why do you care, anyway?”

He juts his chin out, defiant. Arthur’s pulse is hammering in his throat, a staccato beat that has him holding his breath. Eames opens his mouth, the words forming on his lips, when he’s interrupted by Edith Piaf’s warble, crooning about regret.

He cuts himself off with a smile. “That’ll be the kick. Best be off then,” he says with a wink, and Arthur barely has a moment brace himself before the dream is dissolving around him, and Eames is fading away along with it.

 

 

Arthur wakes in Dublin, Eames at his side. There’s a small smile on his lips, like he’s enjoying a private joke, but Arthur has no time to indulge him. They clear the room before Walsh can wake, and after that there’s nothing more to be done but meet with their buyers and finalise the payment. Eames looks almost regretful to be parting ways, though Arthur can’t say he’s sorry to be seeing the last of him. Eames may be brilliant, but Arthur can’t stand the way he gets under his skin, like splinters cutting him from the inside out. It’s a distraction he can’t afford.

“Arthur,” he says, extending a hand.

“Eames,” he says, taking it and squeezing it tightly. “It’s been a pleasure,” he says stiffly.

“Oh the pleasure was all mine,” he says with what can only be described as a leer. At least he’s consistent. 

After that, Arthur keeps tabs on Eames. It’s only a professional curiosity, it’s his job to stay informed. Eames takes on a string of jobs all over the UK, inundated with offers as word of his talent gets out. And then, without warning, he drops off the radar entirely. Arthur hears nothing of him for six months. Gradually he resurfaces, taking jobs in East Africa. But this time it’s different. He’s selective. He ditches the corporate offers, and only takes jobs that are out of left field, challenging. Freelance mostly, if Arthur’s sources are correct.

Arthur takes on exactly two forgers in the year following the Walsh job. Both of them performed well in their interview, forging convincingly enough to fool both himself and Dom in the trials leading up to the job. But the mark could always tell, some small imperfection arousing their suspicion, some tiny detail giving them away, and costing them the job.

Arthur refuses to work with forgers after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.** Hendrick’s

 

Four years after the Walsh job, Arthur is in a dusty workshop in the middle of Paris when Dom puts forward Eames’s name. Arthur’s objection is on the tip of his tongue, already falling out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“There are plenty of good thieves.”

Dom will read multitudes into his objection. Arthur can’t bring himself to care either way.

“We don’t just need a thief,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “We need a forger.”

 

: : :

 

The Fischer job is the most complex job Arthur’s taken in recent memory. A team of five going three levels deep, dozens of moving parts, and the seemingly impossible feat: inception. Arthur works tirelessly, investigating every aspect of Fischer’s life, mapping out contingency after contingency. Despite this, he’s been in this field for long enough to know that all the planning in the world won’t be enough to prepare them for what they find inside of Fischer’s mind.

That fact alone is perhaps why he’s grateful to be working with Eames again. For all of Arthur’s distaste, Eames has an unique resourcefulness, an adaptability that makes him invaluable, and his ability to forge is completely unparalleled.

That doesn’t mean Arthur’s in any way happy to see him.

“Arthur! Long time no see.” He extends a hand and Arthur takes it after only a brief hesitation.

“Mr Eames,” he says, forcing a tight smile.

“You two know each other?” Ariadne asks.

“Only by reputation,” Arthur says stiffly.

“Oh yes, only by reputation,” he says with a wink.

Eames waits until Ariadne’s out of earshot and Arthur’s reviewing blueprints before leaning in close, getting right into Arthur’s personal space. “You’ve not changed a bit, have you Arthur?”

“I’m sorry to say the same of you,” he says distractedly. He maps out the lines carefully, tracing the points where they intersect, but all of his attention is zeroed in Eames, standing so close his breath ghosts Arthur’s neck. Arthur holds his ground, not willing to give an inch.

“Alright everyone, let’s get started.” It’s Dom’s voice, ringing out from across the room.

“Shall I save you a seat?” Eames asks, his tone innocent except for all the ways it’s not.

“Sure, be right there.” He keeps his eyes on the blueprints, projecting indifference, and waits until Eames has retreated before turning.

One of Arthur’s most exceptional qualities is his organisation skills—it’s what makes him so great at what he does. Arthur likes to gather information, inferring or extrapolating where necessary, then he classifies, catalogues. Arthur likes to put things into boxes, neatly labelled and dutifully alphabetised. People—people are trickier, but Arthur tries all the same. Personal characteristics coupled with individual motivations generally provide an accurate measure of a person. Saito is steel-willed and ruthless, driven by pride and ambition. Ariadne is the type of person who’s spent her whole life proving herself, underestimated at every turn, and driven by a desire to surpass people’s expectations. Eames—

Eames is more complicated.

On the surface, Eames is nothing more careless flirting and easy banter, the kind that gets under Arthur’s skin, gets inside his head. Arthur still hasn’t managed to peg down exactly what it is that drives him. It’s so easy to write him off on the basis of his arrogance, of his carefully-cultivated persona that treads the fine line between charming and sleazy. And yet even now, Eames can still surprise Arthur with his brilliance.

When Eames suggests impersonating Browning on the first level and having his projection feed the idea back to Fischer on the second, Arthur is more than impressed.

“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur, thank you.”

That more or less sets the tone for the rest of the job. Eames put forth a plan after plan, thinking so far outside the box that Arthur has no choice but to reel him in. It’s Arthur’s job to challenge every suggestion, to poke holes in designs until they can be reworked into something airtight. Eames becomes increasingly aggravated each time it’s one of his own plans, as if Arthur’s criticisms were a slight against him personally. Arthur keeps his tone deferential, impartial, but he can’t help the way his heart beats just a little faster when he feels he has Eames outsmarted.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” he asks one afternoon.

Arthur doesn’t look up from the bank statements he has spread in front of him. “Doing what?”

“Shooting my ideas down every thirty seconds.”

Arthur fights the urge to smirk as he meets Eames’s eyes. “This isn’t a game, Eames.”

Eames holds his gaze for a beat too long, the intensity of his stare causing Arthur’s heart to ratchet up a notch. Finally, his face breaks out into a grin. “’Course not,” he says, running his tongue over his teeth, “never a game.”

 

: : :

 

Arthur is dreaming. He knows he is. The lines are blurred and hazy, giving way to nothingness in his periphery, his perception more about what he feels than what he sees. And what he feels is—

A mouth on his throat. Hands under his shirt. A thigh pressed between his own. Arthur groans and surrenders to the touch, arching against the other man, heedless of desperate he sounds. The man kisses his way up the column of his throat, stubble grazing Arthur’s skin in a way that makes him shiver. He reaches Arthur’s jaw and kisses him there too, sucking a bruise right above Arthur’s hummingbird pulse. Finally, he draws back.

It’s Eames.

“Hello darling.”

The words are nothing more than a puff of air against his lips but Arthur drinks them in, revelling in the endearment that Arthur always found condescending. Now it seems almost reverent. Eames doesn’t get another word in because Arthur is kissing him back, hard. The hot slide of their tongues is maddening, making him dizzy, and all Arthur can do is take Eames’s face in his hands and kiss him like he’s wanted to for longer than he cares to admit.

“Should have done this years ago.”

Eames laughs, a low rumble from deep in his chest that Arthur feels rather than hears. “I think that’s on you and you alone, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to retort, not when his mouth could be put to better use. His hands, meanwhile, are clawing at Eames’s clothes, desperate to get them off. The physics of the dream means they fall away like water, and within moments he’s running his hands over bare skin and hard muscle, trying to map out every inch of Eames as if he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.

“God,” Arthur says, letting his head fall back against the wall, breathless with how badly he wants this. The movement bares his throat and Eames takes full advantage, biting over his pulse before making his way down, down, down, hungry and desperate in the kind of way Arthur can’t admit of himself. Arthur lets his eyes fall shut, lets the slide of Eames’s hands command all his attention, and when he opens them again Eames is kneeling between his spread legs looking every bit as sinful as Arthur knew he would; that plush mouth red and swollen, those broad hands working him through his pants, and Arthur needs those hands, that mouth—he needs them on him now.

He knows the kick is coming soon, he knows that at any moment he’s going to wake up, hooked up to the PASIV with a bleary Eames stirring beside him and— _fuck,_ he says out loud as Eames finally unbuckles his belt—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that their time is running out, that the PASIV is going to click off at any second, because Eames will be right there with him and they can do this all for real: no charades, no deception, just the two of them finally giving into this thing that’s been growing between them, just finally admitting to each other exactly what it is they both want—

 

 

Arthur wakes alone in an anonymous hotel room, gasping and shivering. It’s dark. Through a slit in the curtains, the Sacré-Cœur stands stark against the skyline. Paris. The Fischer job. Arthur groans and runs a hand over his face. It’s been a long time since he’s dreamt without the PASIV. The fact that he dreamt about Eames is not insignificant. The radio clock on the bedside table tells him it’s 5:32am, and that in less than two hours he’ll be back in the workshop with Eames, arguing over the most effective way to hack into Robert Fischer’s mind.

The thought of facing him again seems impossible.

He’s still hot and feverish from the dream, as if he really did get pushed against a wall and kissed stupid, as if Eames really did get his hands on his skin. His dick aches where it’s pressed into the hotel mattress, and he can’t hold back the gasp when he gets a hand around himself. With the dream so fresh in his mind it’s easy to indulge; to slip back into the unreality of the dream, to convince himself that it’s actually Eames under him, that Arthur’s pressing into him, feeling him shift underneath him with every thrust or—

Eames is on top of him, the entire length of his body pressing him into the mattress, all of that muscle keeping him in place as he relentlessly works him open, as he drives his body into Arthur’s again and again and again, until all he can do is take it—

Arthur comes with a gasp, his hips stuttering as the pleasure overwhelms him and immediately begins to fade. His orgasm leaves him feeling hollow and wrung-out, unsatisfied in the worst possible way, until he’s left dizzy and sticky and more than a little sheepish.

The sky is already beginning to lighten, the early pre-dawn light throwing the room into shades of grey.  Arthur sighs, thinking of how much work lies ahead of him. They still haven’t figured out how to get Fischer alone in order to make the plant, and the sedative will need to be optimised to allow for three levels of dreaming. Accepting the fact that sleep is beyond him at this point, Arthur makes for the shower, grateful that he’ll have a few hours alone in the workshop before Eames arrives.

 

: : :

 

The day that follows is excruciating.

Eames has always had a way of inserting himself into Arthur’s space, either standing just a little too close or grazing him with light, unconscious touches to his shoulder, the small of his back—anywhere within reach. Arthur thought he was immune, thought that he’d been desensitised to it in the time they’d worked together. But now he finds himself acutely aware of the space between them, as if the empty air were charged with something electric, causing sparks to dance on his skin.

It gets worse as the day wears on.

“Try this: ‘my father accepts that I want to create for myself and not follow in his footsteps.’”

Arthur’s so distracted by the obscene spread of Eames’s legs, by how badly he wants to sink between them, that it takes some time to parse what he’s saying.

“That might work,” Dom says.

Arthur’s brain clicks into gear. “Might? We’re going to need to do a little better than might.”

“Thank you for your contribution, Arthur.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Forgive me for wanting a little bit of specificity.”

Eames mouths something unintelligible and Arthur makes the catastrophic error of letting his eyes fall to his lips, and suddenly that’s all he can think about—Eames’s mouth on him, that sharp tongue driving him to ruin, those lips sucking bruises into his skin—

“Specificity,” he hears himself repeat faintly.

Dom interjects at that precise moment, and Arthur is spared the trouble of elaborating. He takes advantage of Eames’s diverted attention to compose himself. As the conversation turns to other topics, Arthur catches one of Eames’s sidelong grins. And maybe it’s just his imagination, but this time, he can’t help but feel that there’s a knowing edge to his smile.

 

: : :

 

The first thing Arthur’s aware of is a thumping bass reverberating through his chest, syncing with the thrum of his heart. The air is hot and humid, his thin t-shirt already damp with sweat, the collar sticking uncomfortably to the back of his neck. Beyond that is the press of dozens of bodies on either side of him, all moving in time to the music.

Arthur knows it before he even opens his eyes: he’s in a nightclub.

He’s also fairly certain he’s in a dream, and someone else’s dream at that. He casts his eyes around for some recognisable face, but there’s no one in sight. The club is unlike any Arthur’s been in: an open-air dance floor surrounded by the crumbling façade of exposed brick on either side, countless bars and sitting rooms branching off from the dance floor, each packed full of a mismatch of kitsch furniture that looks like it was salvaged from a flea market. The walls are covered with graffiti: everything from drunken scribbles to floor-length murals. There are no overhead lights, only the soft glow of table lamps and endless streamers of fairy lights hanging from the walls.

Arthur has a slight hunch about whose dream he might be in.

He manages to disentangle himself from the knot of people in the centre of the dance floor and does a quick perimeter search, coming up empty. Eventually he decides on the main bar, thinking it his best bet if he wants to find the dreamer. Leaning against the bar, he scans the sea of faces, his hand gripped tight around his die where it’s hidden in his pocket. He almost jumps when the bartender asks him what he’d like, and the words _gin and tonic_ slide off his lips before he can them give the slightest consideration.

“You certainly are predictable, aren’t you Arthur?”

It’s Eames. He’s decked out in his usual paisley glory, something blue that makes his eyes look a little less grey. He’s ditched the jacket, his short-sleeved shirt showing the cut of his arms—although Arthur keeps his eyes carefully trained on his face. He’s had plenty of practice.

Arthur bites back whatever insult was on the tip of his tongue, feigning indifference. “What are we doing here?”

“And look, you’re drinking on the job too,” he says, pulling up the nearest barstool, the one that’s right on the edge Arthur’s personal space. “What would Dom say?”

“What are we doing here, Eames?”

Eames’s lip curls. “You don’t remember?” Eames always does this. He has this way of treating everything like a game—a game where the rules are always changing and Arthur’s always two steps behind.

“Just tell me.”

“Yusuf has been perfecting his compound. It’s stronger, allows for more stability in the lower levels. This was all explained to you an hour ago,” he says, reaching for a bowl of olives and popping one in his mouth. Arthur glares at him for the time it takes to chew and swallow. “Anyway,” he says, licking his lips, “the side-effect of this particular compound is that the dreamer, and anyone else who goes into the dream with them, is so heavily sedated that they don’t realise they’re in a dream.”

“I knew I was dreaming.”

“Did you now?” he asks, chewing on another olive in a way that could only be described as lascivious. “Or was it your totem that told you that?”

“I knew,” he says through gritted teeth.

Eames smiles in a way that tells him he’s just fallen for one of his ploys. “Alright Arthur, let’s say I believe you on that one. But you still didn’t know why we were here.”

“And where is here, exactly?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he says a little too quickly.

Arthur’s drink is placed on the bar beside him, a tall glass with a ribbon of cucumber coiled inside it. Hendrick’s, then. Arthur raises the glass to his lips, watches Eames watch him. Senses are always enhanced in dreams, and this time it’s no different: the drink is aromatic, with the addition of something floral. Elderflower he thinks, taking a sip, the sticky sweetness of it cloying and clinging to his tongue before it’s washed away by the freshness of the cucumber.

Eames doesn’t take his eyes of Arthur’s mouth for a single second.

“This bar,” he says, setting his drink down. “It’s a real place. It exists in real life, doesn’t it?”

Eames casts a disinterested look over his shoulder and shrugs. “I might have taken some inspiration from here or there.”

Arthur laughs, loud and full-throated. “Eames, you are many things, but an architect isn’t one of them. You can’t build for shit.”

Eames’s face pinches briefly, but he relents. “This, Arthur, is what they call a ruins bar: an abandoned building that’s been converted into a nightclub. We’re in Budapest.”

“Budapest? That explains the,” he waves the note of foreign currency he found in his pocket.

“The forints, yes.”

Arthur hands the note to the bartender, having no idea if it’s enough. Dream logic probably means it’s irrelevant.

“When were you in Budapest?”

“Oh it was a long time ago,” he says, and just like that, Eames’s expression is completely closed off, the way it always is whenever Arthur tries to poke into his past. It seems criminally unfair that Eames should know every aspect of Arthur’s life, everything from his alma mater to his fucking _dating history_ , and yet Arthur can’t find a single thing on him. “That’s a good look for you by the way,” he says quickly, the deflection too overt to be successful. “It suits you.”

“You’re the dreamer. You dressed me,” he points out.

“Well I suppose I have good taste then,” he says, openly appraising Arthur, his eyes lingering on his muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, on the way his jeans cling to him like a second skin.

Arthur finally gives into the urge to glower. “So what do we do now, since we’re stuck here?”

“I don’t know, enjoy ourselves?” he says, flagging the attention of the bartender. “That is, if you even know how.”

Arthur doesn’t wait for Eames’s drink to arrive. He just downs his own in one long, smooth motion, feeling Eames’s eyes on him the entire time. “I know how.” Arthur’s careful to brush Eames’s shoulder as he passes, the contact sparking a buzzing under his skin. He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know Eames’s eyes never leave him, his gaze heavy like a phantom touch.

The dance floor is a mass of writhing bodies, and Arthur throws himself into the thick of it. The heavy bass is thrumming a beat that Arthur knows he can move to, so he sidles up to one of the many anonymous figures and begins a slow grind, working his hips and allowing the music to move through him. In a dream, the effects of alcohol seem stronger than in waking life, leaving Arthur dizzy, elated. Already the edges of the dreamscape are starting to blur, the fairy lights sending streaks across his vision with every turn of his head.

The stranger he’s dancing with wastes no time in getting his hands on him, running them down his sides, over his hips, guiding his movements in time to the music. Arthur’s just starting to fall into the rhythm of it when those hands abruptly disappear and someone else appears behind him. When Arthur leans back into the body that’s pressed against him he’s met by a wall of muscle. Broad, sturdy hands find their way onto his hips only a moment later.

“What are you doing?” Eames murmurs low in his ear.

“Enjoying myself,” he says simply, letting is head fall back on Eames’s shoulder and grinding back against him. The liquor has left him feeling loose and pliant, and Eames’s hands are a welcome weight where they rest on his body. Within a dream, Arthur feels as though he can do anything, like the normal rules don’t apply here. From the moment they met, Arthur has felt like he was half a step behind, always subject to Eames’s whims. Now, he’s the one holding all the cards. The power is intoxicating.

“Arthur,” he says. A warning.

“Yes?” Arthur pushes back again. He can feel Eames is half-hard in his slacks and he redoubles his efforts. Eames’s breath hitches as he presses against the curve of Arthur’s ass, their bodies flush, and Arthur is spurred on by how desperately Eames wants this too.

“Arthur,” he says again.

“What?”

Arthur’s face is carefully neutral as he turns in Eames’s arms, his touch innocent and unassuming as they find his shoulders. “Be careful, you don’t want my subconscious to turn against you. I’m told it can be particularly nasty.”

Eames’s face is unguarded, open and vulnerable, and Arthur can see the hesitation there. Eames is so close to him; bodies pressed hip to hip, mouths just inches apart—and it is really Eames this time, not Eames wearing someone else’s face, not a figment of Arthur’s imagination from some half-remembered dream. This close, Arthur almost feels as though there’s nothing between them, nothing to stop him from closing the space between them and pressing his lips to Eames’s—

So he does.

Eames hesitates against him for the briefest of moments. Arthur can feel the tension in his shoulders as he holds himself steady. But then he’s yielding, opening his mouth against Arthur’s, and suddenly it’s just the slide of their tongues, slick with liquor. Eames kisses him back like he’s hungry for it, his fingers kneading Arthur’s ass to hold their hips flush while Arthur’s hands work their way under his shirt, desperately seeking out skin-on-skin contact.

They stay locked together like that for what feels like an eternity, the music pulsing through them in waves as Arthur slowly and inexorably unravels under Eames’s touch. The minutes stretch. The seconds lengthen. The only measure of time is the insistent press of Arthur’s cock against Eames’s hip, and how increasingly desperate he is to be touched.

“We should,” he says, interrupting himself with another kiss, “we should get out of here.”

“Arthur—”

“C’mon,” he says, grabbing Eames’s hand and tugging him through the crowd. He leads Eames off the dance floor and through the rooms that branch off from the centre of the club until they find one that’s mostly deserted. Arthur wastes no time getting his mouth back on Eames’s, pressing his knee between his legs until Eames takes the hint and starts to grind against his thigh.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” he murmurs in Eames’s ear. “Always teasing me, finding some excuse to be close to me.” He bites down on Eames’s pulse point, is gratified when he gasps. “Always _pushing_ me,” he says, forcing his thigh higher between Eames’s legs, increasing the pressure. Eames groans. “What was that? Not so smart-mouthed now, are you?”

“Arthur—”

“What?” he asks, dragging Eames’s lower lip between his teeth. Eames makes a noise against his mouth but Arthur swallows it down, working Eames’s shirt open and running his hands over his chest.

“Arthur, I really think we should—”

“Think we should what?” he asks, unbuckling Eames’s belt and working on his pants.

“Arthur!”

What happens next is over in an instant, but Arthur feels each individual moment pass, every second splintering into a thousand pieces like frames on a movie screen. Eames pushes Arthur off him and Arthur falls back in slow motion, a graceful arc as he falls and falls and falls, hovering in the air for entire minutes as he slowly gives into gravity—

And then it’s over. Arthur hits the ground, hard, and time ticks forward into motion again. He only has a single second to look up at Eames’s expression, to see his face pinched in pain, before Eames draws a gun from the waistband of his pants, and shoots him right in the face.

 

 

 

Arthur gasps himself awake in a dusty workshop. Early morning sunlight streams in through the dirty windows, forcing his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. Paris. Of course. That means that Eames is—

“You’re awake.”

Yusuf sits beside him, brow furrowed and clipboard in hand. But Arthur’s not looking at him, he’s looking past him to where Eames is still sleeping, trapped in a dream forged from the memory of a nightclub a thousand miles away.

So Arthur hadn’t imagined it. He looks down to his wrist where the IV lead connects him to the PASIV, and another IV lead is connected to Eames. Arthur really was inside Eames’s dream, really did get into his head, and he really did shove him up against a brick wall and press every inch of their bodies together.

Yusuf clicks his fingers in front of Arthur’s face. “Hello? Are you listening to me?”

Arthur lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“Why are you awake? You had another three minutes on the clock.”

Arthur casts one final look at Eames’s sleeping form before he busies himself with removing the IV lead. “I died.”

“Pardon me?”

“I was shot in the head,” he says, now unrolling his sleeves, rebuttoning the cuffs.

Yusuf looks aghast. “By whom?”

“By him,” he says, nodding in Eames’s direction. Arthur rises with a practiced calm and retrieves his jacket from where it’s hanging over a chair.

“Why did he shoot you?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask him that,” he says, shrugging on his jacket and heading for the door. As he leaves he hears Yusuf call after him.

“Wait! You didn’t tell me how the experiment went!”

Arthur takes off down the stairs at breakneck speed. He needs air, he needs to clear his head, he needs to—

His die. He halts in the foyer, fishing it out of his pocket. He rolls it once, twice, three times. Holds his breath. Again and again and again. And each time, on every roll, it always comes up the same.

 

: : :

 

Arthur maintains his distance after that. He only acknowledges Eames when strictly necessary, and only if Eames has addressed him directly. He’s professional, if a little curt. Eames himself is almost offensively polite, a cool edge to his voice every time he talks to Arthur. As if he didn’t shoot Arthur in the face, which is, even in their line of work, still something of a faux pas. Eames projects an air of _let’s pretend that didn’t happen_ so loudly, he might as well be screaming it in Arthur’s face. Arthur becomes increasingly frustrated as the days wear on. If anyone is owed an explanation, it’s him: Eames has been goading him, teasing him, and frankly, _flirting_ with him since the moment they met. Arthur should have known it was just a game, and now that he’s called Eames’s bluff, somehow he’s the one at fault.  

_I think you’re the type of person who hates to lose. And you can’t stand that you lost to me in particular._

The truth is, Eames has had him pegged since the moment they met. He immediately pinpointed the best way to get under Arthur’s skin, and has been exploiting it ever since. But if Eames isn’t going to offer an explanation for his behaviour, Arthur certainly won’t be the one to ask. He has a job to do, he’s not here to play petty mind games. He’s already been humiliated twice over and isn’t eager to repeat the experience, to get Eames alone and force him to admit it was always just a ploy, just an elaborate experiment to see how far he could push Arthur before he snapped.

Arthur can make peace with it. Arthur can move on.

Four days later, Arthur receives word that Maurice Fischer’s heart has finally given out. Twelve hours after that, he boards a plane to Sydney, his mind on the job with room for little else.


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.** Aviation

 

Arthur wakes on a commercial aircraft, thirty-five thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean. At first, he’s aware of little else but the hum of the engine. But as he cracks his eyes open, he sees a carpet of clouds spread outside his window. The flight to Los Angeles. The Fischer job.

Fischer himself is still unconscious, across the aisle and a couple of seats in front. Arthur acts fast, removing his own IV line and doing the same for him. If Fischer even so much as suspects foul play, all their work would become unravelled, and the fate of Fischer’s company would be the least of their worries.

He moves around the cabin, gathering up the leads, then passes off the PASIV to the stewardess waiting in the hall. There’s no telling when the others will wake up: different body types metabolise the sedative at different rates, and Arthur’s built up quite a tolerance over the years. At first, he was always groggy and disoriented after shared dreaming. But through careful training he developed the ability to immediately reorient himself with his surroundings, to drag himself back to reality the very instant he opens his eyes, casting the line between waking and sleeping into sharp relief.

Arthur fidgets with his die while he waits. There’s one person he’s desperate to talk to, the one person who was there with Fischer at the end, the one person who would know if the idea stuck.

Eames stirs slightly, his breathing becoming more shallow. Arthur watches him from across the aisle, the distance feeling like a chasm, something utterly insurmountable. There are moments from the dream that Arthur remembers, moments where it was almost like nothing had changed between them, where he could give himself over to the illusion. Now, more than ever, Arthur finds himself unsure of where exactly he stands with Eames.

_You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling._

Eames’s fingers twitch where they’re splayed over the armrest, and Arthur realises he can’t wait any longer. He crosses the aisle and crouches beside him, taking one of Eames’s hands in his own squeezing gently.

“Eames,” he whispers. “Eames.”

Eames’s eyelashes flutter at the sound of his name, until he finally opens his eyes, looking dazed. As Eames blinks the world back into focus, Arthur’s suddenly aware of how intimate this is; crouched at Eames’s feet, holding Eames’s hand and gazing up into his eyes.

Arthur releases his hand hastily.

“Arthur,” he says, voice rough from sleep.

“Did it work? Did the idea take?”

Eames’s face is inscrutable. Arthur’s heart is caught in his throat. Then finally, his expression softens.

“Yeah, Arthur. It took.”

 

: : :

 

LAX is as busy and bustling as Arthur remembers, full of harried passengers who want nothing more than to leave as quickly as possible so they can return to their family.

Dom is no exception.

Arthur takes his place behind him at the immigration desk, holding his breath as the clerk processes his passport. For one, horrible moment, Arthur fears the worst, can only look on helplessly as the clerk rifles through the pages of his passport, a frown growing between his eyes. But then he stamps the page and ushers Dom forward, and Arthur can’t help but breathe out a sigh of relief. He looks over at Eames, hoping to catch his eye, but his gaze is evasive.

Arthur loses track of Eames after that, and it’s not until he reaches the baggage claim that they cross paths again. Here, they’re all strangers, just six individuals from different walks of life who do not—cannot—know each other. That still doesn’t stop Arthur from sparing Ariadne a small smile as she leaves to make her connecting flight to Paris, or from nodding at Yusuf as he helps him pull his suitcase off the carousel.

Eames is there as well. He’s standing just outside of the throng of people waiting for their luggage, hands in his pockets and casting a disinterested look at the crowd. Arthur spots his own suitcase on the carousel, and in the three seconds it takes to retrieve it, Eames disappears. Arthur scans the crowd, but he knows it’s too late. He’s gone.

Eames has a way about him, a way of effortlessly commanding the attention of an entire room, and a way of fading into a crowd when he no longer wants to be seen. It’s part of what makes him such a good forger. In that same way, he fades in and out of Arthur’s life in a manner that’s almost dreamlike; an apparition that manifests when Arthur least expects it, only to vanish again just as suddenly. Every time he appears, Eames draws all of Arthur’s attention until it’s the only thing he can focus on, and every time he vanishes, Arthur is always left turning his head just a second too late.

 

: : :

 

Arthur runs his finger around the outside of his glass, gathering the condensation. The hotel bar is awash with the dim chatter of a hundred anonymous people, and Arthur waits for no one. It’s good to be back in the States, to finally get his feet back on the ground after taking job after job. His last stint took him across continents: Cape Town, Tokyo, Paris, Sydney, and now LA—his final pit stop before he makes his way home to New York. With all the uncertainty surrounding Dom’s re-entry into the country, Arthur had opted to spend an extra night here in case there was any trouble. But with Dom back safe with his family, Arthur’s passing the night alone the only way he knows how: in the hotel bar.

He's just knocking back the last of his Negroni, savouring the bitter burn of it as it goes down, when he hears a familiar voice; the timbre rough and gravelly, the accent undeniably English.

“Two gin and tonics please.”

Arthur doesn’t raise his eyes from his glass. “You know I drink other things too, right?”

“But this is your favourite.” Arthur can hear the smirk in his voice. It occurs to him that in addition to the seemingly limitless things he doesn’t know about Eames, his drink of choice is among them. Arthur never thought to ask.

“You’re supposed to be staying at the Hilton.”

“And how would you know that?”

“It’s my job to know.”

Arthur catches Eames’s smile in his periphery. “Oh Arthur, you really are impeccable at what you do.” The compliment feels like a barb, the way it always does with Eames, so he keeps his eyes on his own empty glass, ignoring Eames’s presence as he brings their drinks over and pulls up the stool next to his. “I am,” he admits finally.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Well Arthur, I came to see friend,” he says breezily. “Try this, you’ll like it. It’s Aviation.”

“You ordered an American gin.”

Eames shrugs. “When in Rome?”

Arthur has long since learned that he can’t not play Eames’s game, even though he’s sure to lose each and every time. So he does. He raises the glass to his lips and takes a sip. The gin is smooth, light on the juniper. It’s bright with the taste of lavender, and as the sweetness of the botanicals fade he’s left with the spice of orange and cardamom dancing on his tongue. It tastes good, amazing even, and would probably taste even better in a dream.

Eames watches him the entire time. Just as he did in Dublin, just as he did in Budapest.

“It’s nice,” he says blandly.

Eames huffs out a laugh and soundlessly mouths the word _nice_ , then takes a sip of his own drink. He lets the silence stretch long enough for the tension to build, until he finally speaks again.

“So. Budapest.”

Arthur feels a thrill of trepidation. He’d been expecting this.

“Budapest,” he parrots.

“It has since occurred to me that I might have made a slight tactical error that night,” he says in a rush.

Arthur blinks. “You think shooting me in the face was a tactical error?” He finally turns towards him, orienting his body so their knees are touching. “Eames, I’m surprised, I didn’t think you were capable of making mistakes.”

“No that would be you, Arthur.”

“I think my actions that night proved otherwise. Besides,” he says, turning back to the bar as he takes another sip, “a hole in my research nearly got us all slaughtered by militarised projections, in case you’d already forgotten.”

When Arthur chances a sidelong glance at Eames, he’s frowning, looking at Arthur very intently. “Do you really regret it?”

It takes Arthur several seconds to realise he’s not talking about the Fischer job. Arthur is taken aback by his sincerity, by how open and candid his expression is. Suddenly, the room feels very quiet. All he can hear is the dull thud of his heart in his ears. He swallows hard, choosing his next words very carefully. “Look where it got us.”

Eames sighs and runs a hand over his face. “That night—that was my fault. I miscalculated.”

“You miscalculated,” he repeats flatly.

“I miscalculated.” Arthur has never seen him look so uncomfortable, so unsure of himself. “I thought you were getting revenge on me. Payback. You know, for the Walsh job.”

Arthur’s brain stutters, but he keeps his expression neutral. The Walsh job. Of course. He takes a long, slow sip of his drink, letting Eames stew in his own discomfort for a moment or two. Finally, he clears his throat. “You mean, the job where you seduced me and then utterly humiliated me when you revealed it was all a ruse?”

Eames looks contrite. “Precisely.”

Arthur allows himself a small, self-deprecating laugh. “No Eames, that wasn’t payback. That was just me perceiving your incessant flirting to be genuine interest in me. Another humiliation on my part.”

“I am,” he says, licking his lips. “Interested, I mean.”

Arthur takes a moment to look at him, to _really_ look at him. Eames’s face is unguarded. Arthur never would have thought describe him as otherwise, but seeing him like this makes him realise the extent to which his usual demeanour is a mask, a façade. Eames is a forger through and through, so proficient that even Arthur struggles to get a read on him, even outside of a dream. Arthur holds his gaze for a long time, seemingly deliberating even though he’d decided in an instant.

“Okay.”

Eames’s brow furrows. “Okay?” Arthur finishes his drink leisurely as Eames does his best not to splutter. “So that’s it then? You scurry back to your corner of the world, and I’ll go back to mine, and we’ll just hope to cross paths again in what, four years from now, just so we can do this whole song and dance again?”

Arthur rises smoothly from his stool and pulls on his jacket, fastening the buttons with careful deliberation. “No,” he says simply.

He turns and crosses the bar with unhurried, even strides, not looking back. It’s not long before he hears Eames scramble from somewhere behind him, and he can’t help but give into the smile tugging at his lips. He makes it to the elevators to find one open and waiting for him, blessedly empty, pushes the button for the ninth floor, and waits.

Eames slides in just as the doors are sliding shut, his face alight with a wicked smile. He doesn’t wait for the doors to finish closing, just grabs Arthur’s face with both hands, and kisses him. Arthur allows himself to be backed against the wall and yields to Eames’s soft mouth, his hands skimming Eames’s sides and encouraging more of his touch. The kiss is charged but not frenetic, not the way it was in Dublin, in Budapest. It’s slower, more sensual. For the first time they’re on the same page, neither of them going anywhere, the threat of suddenly waking completely absent from Arthur’s mind.

Time passes in discrete increments, second by second. The elevator rises and rises and stops at the ninth floor. They spill out of the elevator and Arthur guides them down the correct hallway, his hand still on Eames’s waist, not wanting to lose contact for even a second. When they arrive at Arthur’s room, Eames backs him up against the door, and Arthur can’t help but smile against his mouth, not quite believing this is real.

“Eames—my keycard—”

There’s a glint in Eames’s eyes when he draws back, a wicked edge to his smile. “Check your pocket.”

Arthur feels a flare of irritation that he channels into a kiss, sucking Eames’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting none too gently. “Are you ever going to stop being a smug asshole?”

“Are you ever going to stop pretending you don’t enjoy it?”

Arthur groans when Eames kisses him again, pressing their hips together in a way that makes his head spin. He’s brought back by a faint _beep_ as his keycard is pressed against the reader, followed by the click of a lock. It takes him far too long to realise that Eames used the kiss as a distraction to slide the card out of his pocket and unlock the door.

“No honour amongst thieves, huh?”

“I don’t suppose I ever told you I got my start as a pickpocket?”

“Considering you lifted my wallet the first time we met, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

There’s a brief pause as Arthur shuts the door behind them, the lock clicking into place with a metallic sound. Something about the finality of that tone sends his heart is hammering in his chest. There’s a niggling anxiety in the back of his mind that tells him that this is just another one of Eames’s ploys, just a cheap trick to one-up him for what feels like the umpteenth time. He hesitates, his back against the door.

But then Eames crosses the space between them, his hands bracketing Arthur’s hips as he kisses him, easy in the way that it’s never been between them, natural as breathing. Eames’s hands are working at his belt with a deft efficiency, and Arthur can’t stop the small distressed sound he makes when Eames draws his lips away from his.

“What are you— _oh._ ”

Eames is sinking to his knees before him, looking like a wet dream come to life. Arthur has spent so long fantasising about this exact scenario that it seems almost surreal to feel Eames’s pressing his face to the bulge in his underwear, to see him draw back with a smirk on his face.

“Feeling a little flustered, are we Arthur?”

“Shut up,” he grits out. He gets his fingers into Eames’s immaculate hair, trying to tether himself to reality.

“You could make me,” he murmurs as he presses his lips to the wet spot on Arthur’s underwear. Arthur gasps as Eames starts sucking him through the fabric, laving at the head. Even through a layer of cotton, Eames’s mouth feels incredible, better than he could have imagined.

His words carry a breathless stutter when he finally manages to speak again. “Yeah, okay. I’ll make you.”

He draws his cock out and slides the waistband of his underwear down one-handed, not willing to let go of Eames just yet. Eames looks up at him expectantly, his eyes dark and hungry, and Arthur doesn’t wait for further instruction. He presses the tip Eames’s mouth, to those plush lips that he’s dreamt about for longer than he cares to admit, and draws in a steadying breath. Eames’s eyes flutter closed as Arthur pushes forward, his lips parting easily as Arthur slowly feeds him his cock, the glide of his mouth feeling incredible as Arthur pushes deeper and deeper.

In the time Arthur has known Eames, he’s proven to be exceptional at many things: this, it seems, is no different. Eames’s mouth looks downright obscene where it’s stretched around the base of his cock, his jaw stretched wide and his throat working effortlessly as he takes Arthur all the way. Arthur groans and lets his head fall back against the door, surrendering completely to the wet pressure of Eames’s mouth. Eames doesn’t let up for a second, already setting a pace that leaves Arthur weak at the knees and has him grasping at Eames for support. Arthur groans loudly as Eames works his tongue along his length, finally getting into a rhythm that has Arthur’s fingers convulsing in his hair—a rhythm that’s abruptly broken when Eames pulls off with off with a self-satisfied smirk.

“All right there, Arthur?”

Arthur’s hips stutter forward of their own accord, instinctively seeking out more contact. He knows he must look a mess, clothes dishevelled, flushed and panting. But he has no room for shame, not when he’s wanted this for so long.

“Bed,” he bites out. Eames’s smile widens.

“I always knew you’d be bossy,” he says, taking Arthur in hand as he licks along the underside of his cock. He lets the tip rest against his tongue for a few seconds, just long enough to lock eyes with Arthur, before taking it back into his mouth and slowly swirling his tongue around the head, the pressure enough to make Arthur feel as though he’s losing his mind.

“Eames, _please._ ”

Eames draws off his cock and within seconds he’s on his feet again, one arm braced on the door beside Arthur’s head, leaning in so close their mouths are almost touching. “I have to say, I do like it when you beg.” Arthur does his best to glare, but Eames still has a hand on him and is bringing him off with slow, firm strokes. “I’ve thought about it quite a bit but I never imagined it would be so gratifying.” Arthur makes a strangled sound. The thought of Eames fantasising about him makes his cock leak, Eames’s grip gone slick as he works him faster and faster. “Maybe we won’t even make it to the bed, maybe I’ll just make you come right here in your posh suit—”

“Fuck, _Eames_ —”

“Alright,” he says, releasing Arthur and pushing off from the door. He walks backwards towards the bed, keeping his eyes on Arthur the whole time, a lazy grin on his face as he unbuttons his shirt, more and more skin being exposed with every passing second. He carelessly kicks off his shoes as he shrugs out of his shirt. His socks and slacks are next to join the pile, and by the time he reaches the bed he’s down to his underwear.

“Aren’t you going to join me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, the request almost laughable in the face of how badly he wants it. He takes a second to fix his pants before he’s crossing the room to join Eames on the bed.

“Arthur, I know you’re a control freak, but please tell me you’re not the type to fuck with your clothes on.”

“If you’re so bothered, feel free to do something about it,” he murmurs, gracefully straddling Eames’s hips and grinding down. Eames’s erection is hot and insistent against him, and Arthur’s rewarded by a broken groan when he presses their hips together. Eames’s hands are scrabbling at his jacket, and Arthur obliges by unbuttoning it and letting it slide off his shoulders.

“Actually I think I’m happy to let you take care of that,” he says, lying back with his hands behind his head. Arthur removes his tie in one, smooth pull, then sets to work on his shirt. Eames watches him with hooded eyes, lazily rolling his hips under Arthur’s weight.

Arthur raises an eyebrow as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and tosses it aside. “Like what you see?”

“You know, you’re awfully cocky when you’re not getting your soul sucked out through your dick.” He reaches for Arthur who grabs his wrists, easily pinning them above his head. Arthur cuts off whatever smart-ass comment was sure to follow by kissing him deeply, the feeling of having Eames beneath him so much more gratifying than he could have ever imagined.

“Speaking of,” he says, breaking the kiss. Eames’s brow furrows as Arthur begins to make his way down his body to where Eames’s legs are hanging off the edge of the bed, then sinks to the floor to kneel between then.

“Oh—” Eames says, his eyes darkening when he realises Arthur’s intention. “Oh this I have _got_ to see.” He props himself up with one arm while the other finds his way to Arthur’s hair as if he’s afraid he’s going to stray off course. Arthur runs a hand over the outline of his erection through the fabric, savouring the way Eames’s breath hitches at the contact. He raises his hips when Arthur tugs at the waistband, staring down at him with something akin to wonder as Arthur takes him in hand.

Arthur wants to draw this out. He wants to get Eames back for the relentless teasing, taunting, for every time he leaned in just a little too close, for all those casual touches that had driven Arthur out of his mind. But when he gets a hand around Eames’s dick—flushed dark and leaking at the tip—he knows he can’t hold back; he wraps his lips around the head and swallows him down smoothly, all the way until his lips are meeting the ring of his fingers. Eames shudders and groans above him, his hand tightening in Arthur’s hair as he draws back, hollowing his cheeks. He keeps up a steady rhythm, working his mouth along the length and drawing his tongue along the underside with every upstroke. Eames tastes like fancy hotel soap, and Arthur knows he’ll never be able to stay at a Hilton without thinking of this moment. Eames’s hips twitch beneath his touch, clearly restraining himself from outright fucking his face, and Arthur can’t help but groan at the thought. The sound reverberates in his ears, amplified by the hammering of his heart, and it takes him a few moments to realise Eames is speaking.

“—should see yourself like this, never thought that I’d see the day, _god_ —”

With a dick in his mouth, Arthur’s in no position to retaliate, at least not verbally. So he raises his free hand to cup Eames’s balls and reach behind them to rub his perineum. Eames chokes on his words, thrusting forward into Arthur’s mouth. Breathlessly, he says—

“God Arthur, fuck me.”

Arthur freezes as his mind processes Eames’s words. He draws off slowly, forcing a truly pitiable sound out of Eames. “Yeah?”

Eames’s eyes are dark and hooded, his chest heaving with exertion. He nods mutely, his touch surprisingly tender when he runs his thumb over Arthur’s swollen lower lip.

Arthur nips at the pad of his thumb. “Hang tight.”

His statement is met with a groan as Eames flops back onto the bed, defeated. Arthur disappears into the en suite for a moment, and when he returns with lube and a condom, Eames is face-down on the bed, a pillow stuffed underneath his hips. The position accentuates the curve of his ass and leaves him completely exposed. Arthur’s dick throbs with how badly he wants to be inside him. 

“Comfortable?”

“Would feel a mite better if you would hurry up and fuck me, but otherwise I can’t complain.” He half-turns to watch Arthur kick off his shoes and shed the rest of his clothing, his gaze heated as his eyes roam his body.

Like Eames, Arthur has little intention of drawing this out. But with Eames’s ass so brazenly on display, he can’t resist placing a bite to the junction of his thigh, savouring the bitten-off gasp Eames makes in response.

“Don’t you”—another gasp as Arthur repeats the action—“dare tease me, Arthur.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, the smirk coming through in his tone. Making good on his word, he presses two slick fingers to Eames’s rim, feeling him open up under the gentle pressure. Eames is relaxed and pliant, taking his fingers easily and gasping for more, and it’s not long before Arthur’s rolling on a condom and lining up.

Eames feels like a dream. Arthur sinks into him slowly, just one long, inexorable slide, feeling Eames flex around him and cant his hips back, begging with his body. Months, _years_ of tension have culminated in this very moment, and now Arthur’s overwhelmed by it all, by the sight of Eames spread out beneath him, by the hot press of Eames all around him. Eames groans when Arthur pushes in all the way and begins a slow grind of his hips against the curve of Eames’s ass.

“God,” Eames says, “you feel absolutely—”

He cuts himself off with a moan as Arthur shifts inside him, starting to move in tiny increments.

“Likewise,” Arthur says, pressing a string of kisses to the nape of his neck, a gentle bite to the crest of his shoulder. “Let me know when you’re—”

“I’m ready,” he says breathlessly, and Arthur doesn’t wait a single second longer. He splays one hand over the small of Eames’s back and grips his shoulder with the other, forcing his back into a steep arch. With his knees bracketing Eames’s, it’s easy to roll his hips, to press into the hot clutch his body, forcing the breath out of him with each and every thrust. Arthur loses himself in the rhythm of it, in the feeling of Eames tight around him and pinned beneath him.

Eames is babbling something unintelligible, goading, goading, always fucking _goading_ Arthur, doing whatever he can to get a rise out of him, and this time, Arthur doesn’t hold back. He forces Eames into a steeper arch, his grip gone harsh where his fingers dig into Eames’s skin. Eames can only moan as the angle forces Arthur deeper, every jolt of Arthurs hips causing Eames to grind against the pillow beneath him. Eames manages to get a hand around himself, and it’s not long before he tenses, muscles gone taunt as spills onto the pillow with a groan.

Eames goes lax beneath his touch almost immediately, collapsing onto the bed the second Arthur loosens his grip. Eames is so plaint beneath him, completely wrung out, and it’s easy for Arthur to use his body to chase his own release, short, shallow thrusts that have pleasure pooling in his gut, shooting up his spine. Arthur feel’s Eames’s name rising in his throat as his orgasm hits, so he bites down on Eames’s shoulder instead, burying himself one last time as the pleasure overwhelms him. Eames moans weakly beneath him, twitching with hypersensitivity, and Arthur kisses the bite on his shoulder in apology. He continues in this way, sucking bruises into Eames’s skin, along his shoulder, his neck, anywhere within reach, as he slowly softens inside him.

Eames groans when he pulls out and Arthur presses one last kiss to the nape of his neck before heading to the bathroom on shaky legs to dispose of the condom. Eames is still splayed out when he returns, completely boneless and for once in life, silent. Arthur swallows.

“If you’re done ogling me, could you fetch me another pillow? This one’s out of commission.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts, then cuts himself off, knowing it’s useless. He retrieves a new one from the closet and tosses it at Eames who makes a disgruntled sound, finally rolling onto his back and throwing the dirty pillow across the room.

“You can’t just leave that there.”

Eames shrugs. “They’ve seen worse.”

Arthur closes his eyes and runs his hands over his face, the fatigue from the last few weeks finally catching up to him. All those late nights spent meticulously planning the job, all that time he spent under—all of it has left him exhausted, and it seems that Eames isn’t faring much better.

“Tired?” he asks, slinging a heavy arm over Arthur’s waist.

“Yeah.” It takes considerable effort to force the single syllable past his lips. His mind is slow, like after a strong dose of Somnacin, words somehow escaping him. It feels unreal to be lying next to Eames after all this time and Arthur can’t hold himself back from touching any part of him within reach, as if this is the last chance he’ll ever get. As if he’s seconds away from waking up.

“What time’s your flight tomorrow?”

“Two. Yours?”

“Noon. We have time.”

Arthur nods. Neither of them mention the prospect of Eames returning to the Hilton.

He’s never been one for pillow-talk, can’t even remember the last time he had a hook-up that wasn’t a one night stand, and Eames doesn’t exactly seem keen for a post-mortem analysis—so Arthur lets it go, lets his head fall back against the pillow, lets his eyelids grow heavy.

The sun is just starting to set, bathing the room in an orange glow and casting shadows along Eames’s body. Arthur traces them idly until the room around him begins to fade into darkness. As the weight of sleep pulls him under, he can’t help but feel as though there was something he was supposed to do, something important. But resisting the tug of sleep is like fighting against a raging tide, and with Eames’s slow, steady breathing soft on his neck, Arthur finds he can do little else but surrender as the world around him dissolves, fades out.

 

: : :

 

Arthur wakes in an anonymous hotel room. It’s dark. He is—not alone, actually, there’s someone else here, someone whose body is pressed against his. Eames. Arthur jolts with a start, a thrill of adrenaline sending his heart racing. He’s suddenly wide awake, panic coursing through him as he struggles to recollect the events of last night. All the details are hazy, disjointed. It could be the jetlag casting a fog over his mind, or it could be—

Arthur’s heart lurches. He slips out of bed as quietly as he can, feeling the world tilt under his feet as he goes dizzy with panic. He searches blindly for his pants, picking through several garments until he finds them, then heads to the bathroom, silently closing the door before he turns on the light.

He looks like shit.

His face is pale and drawn, making the dark circles under his eyes stand out, and there’s sweat beading his brow. He runs the faucet with shaking hands, splashing water onto his face and forcing down a few deep breaths.

Maybe it’s the sound of the running water or the thudding of his heart in his own ears, but he doesn’t hear the knock on the door, not at first. He thinks he might be imagining it, but then—

“Arthur? Are you okay?”

Arthur clenches his hand into a fist, concealing his palm. How long has he been in here, anyway? Eames was still asleep when he left the bed. If his perception of time is distorted, then it means—

“Arthur?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” he says shakily.

“I’m coming in, okay?”

Arthur tries to object, but the words get stuck in his throat. Before he can force them past his lips, the door is sliding open, inch by inch for what feels like an eternity, until finally Eames emerges from the doorway like an apparition. He looks ethereal, the gold light casting a halo around his head, and Arthur wants to reach out, to touch, to confirm he’s real, but something keeps him rooted to the spot.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur nods.

“You’re not having some sort of existential crisis because you slept with a colleague?”

Arthur shakes his head, not quite trusting himself to speak.

“No?” he asks, sidling up behind Arthur and snaking an arm around his waist. “Not at all concerned that you’ve compromised your professional integrity?” Eames presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, and Arthur forces himself to speak.  

“No.”

“That’s good to hear. Because we’re not technically colleagues anymore, so that would be quite a waste.” He continues to lay kisses down the slope of Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur watches their reflection in the mirror, transfixed. Finally, he forces his throat unstuck.

“I just—I couldn’t sleep. Jetlag.”

“Mmm, well. Do come back to bed soon, dawn is still hours away and I want to make the most of our morning,” he says, biting at Arthur’s jaw.

“I will.”

Eames presses one final kiss to his shoulder as he releases Arthur from his embrace. He makes to leave but hovers in the doorway, waiting on him. Arthur’s mouth has gone very dry.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Yeah. I’ll—I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, his voice coming out paper-thin.

Eames nods, looking as though he wants to say something else, but he thinks better of it. He slides the door closed behind him, and leaves Arthur alone in the bathroom with his heart pounding in his ears and his die clutched in his clammy fist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asuralucier—I loved your letter and it was a pleasure writing for you. When I saw your prompt for UST I took it and ran with it; hopefully this is what you were after! I also loved your prompt about "drinks porn" but I can't really see Arthur as a cocktail guy, so I went with the classic G&T. Finally, ruins bars are [a real thing in Budapest](https://www.nomadicmatt.com/travel-blogs/the-ruin-bars-of-budapest/) because I, like Eames, am terribly unoriginal. I hope you enjoyed this, happy Fandom5k!
> 
> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


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